Here There Is No Time And No Maps So I Must Content Myself With A Geography Of Words

Here in the pitchdark

underhill with blood like air

through wormtunnel veins here

in the mud that smells

like the womb here

where I have never taken

a clear breath and the sun

never rises because I

drink all the blood

that should be her substance

here with the spell of my name

an anchor here

with branches for fingers with acorns

for eyes here

with the green frog and the blue bee

and the red rabbit all

in their places with time

a snare or

a rope stretched between them

here with nothing but nighttime here

my body decohering here

in the endless place i left tormented

by torment & tangibility here

interminal still-puddle-here

crown on my head door with no lock

oubliette destiny

here I know, again.

I will never go back.